


Glass Castles

by Renie_Black



Series: Stay Still [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other, Substance Abuse, abusive language, worthless feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renie_Black/pseuds/Renie_Black
Summary: The Christmas before the draft, Kent goes back home to remind himself of where he came from. Unfortunately,  going home isn't always what it seems.





	Glass Castles

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be read as a stand-alone piece, but as far as timeline goes, it's more of a prequel of sorts. Please note that this story does reference child abuse, has some homophobic language, and there are mentions of drug use.

_'Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass_  
_Hardly anything there for you to see _  
Linkin Park “Castle of Glass”__

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Kent picked at the lint on his shirt and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot outside of his mom’s sagging apartment complex. The bitterly cold wind snaked through the opening of his jacket, but he was already feeling chilled and clammy at the prospect of walking up to the apartment he hadn’t been at in years. Kent sucked in a deep breath, hoping that Mrs. Flowers was home, so Kent could surprise her. They hadn't seen each other in over a year, and he was excited to give her the Christmas present he had purchased with Alicia's help. It wasn’t much, but he didn’t think that he could possibly thank her enough for helping raise and support him through the years. 

Kent exhaled, his breath a puff of white smoke in the chilly air. He finally forced himself to walk up the small pathway, stomach twisting into knots with each step. His mom hadn’t invited him to come stay like Kent had told the Zimmermans. Instead, Mrs. Flowers had called him citing Christmas nostalgia for their previous Christmases before she had sent Kent to Rimouski to play hockey, and he figured he would see his mom one last time before he left for the NHL. Alicia had lit up and genuinely happy that Kent was going to be able to spend this Christmas with his mom, and Kent didn't have the heart to explain his complicated family life. 

The water stained walls of the hallway greeted him like an old friend as Kent made his way to the side exit. A set of cement stairs came to view, complete with the rusted and rickety rail that jutted out at the top. Kent ran his hand over the rusted metal, watching as tiny flakes floated in the air. Memories of narrowly missing the jagged edges flitted through his mind as he started to slowly ascend the stained and unsanitary steps. Kent attempted to ignore the faint, but pungent scent of stale urine and again vowed that he was going to move Mrs. Flowers somewhere with a doorman and working elevator. 

He made his way up five flights, thankful that he was in the best shape of his life. Cautiously, he pulled the door open to reveal an empty hallway but wrinkled his nose at the odor of rotting garbage mixed with the lingering scent of overcooked ground beef. Readjusting the duffle bag that was on his shoulder, Kent slowly made his way down the hall, pausing in front of Mrs. Flowers door. Kent was thankful that he was only going here for a few days and for the majority of his time he would be with his Mrs. Flowers, who he really wanted to spend his time with. He only needed to see his mother for a few hours. Stepping away from the perceived safety of Mrs. Flowers doorway, Kent pulled a battered key from his pocket, fiddling with it between his fingers as he stared at the door to apartment 5D. 

Just as he was about to slide the key into the lock, Mrs. Flowers wrenched her door open and exclaimed, “Kent Parson! You didn’t think you were going to sneak in and not say a proper hello, now did you?” 

Kent grinned, plopping his duffle bag down on the ground outside of her door. He turned and saw Mrs. Flowers, looking slightly frailer than she did five months before. She beamed at him, and Kent took in her salt and pepper hair bun, and her trademark hot pink cat-eye glasses that winked at him in the dim hallway light. She held her arms open for a hug, and he enveloped her tiny body, careful to not squeeze her too much. Mrs. Flowers, however, wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him with all her might. Kent inhaled the wafting scent of nutmeg and vanilla, allowing himself to relax into the safety and warmth of his surrogate mother. 

She finally released him, and Kent pulled away from her, still grinning. “Heya, Mrs. F. Long time no see.” 

She swatted at him playfully and replied, “It’s hard for these old bones to make it to the Great White North nowadays, but I catch all your games. You’re making quite the name for yourself, Kenny.”

Kent’s cheeks heated up, and he ducked his head embarrassed, “Nah, Zimms just makes everyone he plays with look good.” 

Mrs. Flowers clucked her tongue at him, and from the corner of his eye, her hands landed on her hips. “Nonsense. You are an excellent and talented hockey player,” she paused, voice growing softer as she said, “And you don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Mrs. F,” Kent mumbled, hands fidgeting at his side. He never quite knew what to do with those types of compliments, especially coming from the one person who meant the most to him. Kent stepped away from Mrs. Flowers and exclaimed, “Oh! I brought you something!”

Kent took the few steps back to his duffle bag and rummaged through it, and pulled out a poorly wrapped, rumpled and lumpy package. He offered it to Mrs. Flowers, who took it gently from his hands, lips turning up in amusement at the wrapping.

“Oh Kenny,” she murmured softly, tucking the gift under her arm. She cupped Kent's cheek with her free hand, “Such a thoughtful boy. You know the only thing you had to bring was yourself.”

“I, uh, I know, “Kent stuttered, “But I just wanted you to know, to thank you, for well everything. I know, uhm, I know that I can’t ever really thank you for taking care of me when I needed it, but um, I thought this was a start? And, um, I wouldn’t be where I am now without you believing and fighting for me.” 

Kent lowered his eyes away from Mrs. Flowers and furtively glanced at 5D. He clenched his fists for a minute, the familiar sense of anger filling him as he wished the circumstances of his life could be different. Not for the first time in the last few years, he wished he could explain this part of himself to the Zimmermans, but he knew that they would never really understand. 

Mrs. Flowers followed his gaze, her own eyes darkening as she gave a heavy sigh that told Kent all he ever needed to know about her feelings toward his mother. Rolling her shoulders backward, she fixed a cheery smile on her face and gestured toward her open door. 

Forcing a lot of fake cheer into her voice, she asked, “Do you want to come home first? I’ve got some cookies I pulled out of the oven, and we both know cookies and courage go hand in hand. Plus, I would love to hear the extended version of your Canadian adventures, as opposed to the five-minute synopsis.” 

“Pfft, more like our two-hour phone conversations once a week, “ Kent shot back, his face pink with embarrassment at being with his second mom by the second. 

“And I want to hear more about this Zimmerman boy that had won your heart," Mrs. Flowers added with a salacious wink that caused Kent to splutter incoherently, face becoming even redder. 

Despite his embarrassment and the fondness in his heart, he finally, he managed, “I should uh, go on in and see my mom though.”

Mrs. Flowers clutched the gift to her chest for a moment, lips pursed and shook her head slightly, trying to not belie her true feelings about Kent’s mother. “You have a key, hon, and you’re always welcome home.”

Kent’s heart ached at the thought of the two places he called home, divided by a river of a dingy hallway. Regardless of how far he had come in the Q and being somewhat adopted by the Zimmermans (though he was pretty sure they weren’t aware of their surrogate parent status), he always felt like home was a crossroads for him. He loved Mrs. F, would fight through heaven and hell to protect her from anything, but he loved his mom too, despite, well everything else. Kent realized that he had paused for a longer amount of time than he meant to, as Mrs. F loitered by the door. She walked over the threshold to her apartment and leaned in the doorway watching him shakily slide the key into the knob. 

"You don't have to go over there," she uttered softly, "Things, haven't been going well for your mama. I..I don't know that you're going to like what you find over there."

The key caught in the tumblers and stuck like it always did before it unlocked, but Kent paused before he pushed the door open. He turned to Mrs. Flowers and whispered, "I know, Mrs. F. But.... I just gotta do this. She's still my mom."

"I know she is. I'll be home when you're done," Mrs. Flowers replied softly, taking a step back into the threshold of her apartment, worried eyes watching as Kent pushed the door open and disappeared into the dark room. 

Kent paused at the cramped foyer, stepping around stacks of crinkled and water damaged cardboard boxes that smelled vaguely of mildew. Unwashed clothes were strewn over the floor and across the sagging, fraying, mouse-infested couch. Kent was pretty sure the original color had been offwhite, but layers of dirt and grime made it impossible to tell now. Kent made his way further into the living room, noting the foil and bent spoon resting on a lopsided coffee table, and upon further inspection, Kent realized that several bricks were being used to keep the monstrosity from toppling over. Empty bags and tin foil squares littered the floor around it, and Kent could see remnants of broken pipes smashed into the threadbare carpet. 

The small television that was there when Kent was last home three years ago was missing, a giant hole between two bookshelves that had seen better days. Ghosts of missing pictures caught Kent’s eye, and he paused to look at the remaining crooked frames that still hung there. The glass was either missing or had spider-web cracks splintering through them. One picture remained surprisingly intact despite the nearly demolished frame that hung loosely against the wall. The frame looked like it was seconds away from completely falling apart. A smile ghosted his lips as his fingers traced over a smaller version of his face, toothless and innocent as he grinned up from his father’s arms, his mom perched by his dad’s side, smiling softly at the both of them. This was one of the last times that they were all together before his dad left to fight a war and didn’t come home and his mom forgot that she had a son to take care of. He carefully unhooked the frame from the wall and removed the picture from where it was trapped between the wooden frame. 

He held the picture between his fingers, hands trembling a bit as he folded the picture and slid it into his pocket. As much as he hated this place, it still held pieces of his past that he couldn’t hide forever. Clearing his throat, he picked his way through the wrecked living room, attempting to ignore the cloying smell of rotted food and molded plates that sat on the floor, sink, and counters. Broken kitchen glasses and plates littered the floor, and he cringed as he attempted to not break anything else. 

He cleared his throat and tentatively called, “Mom?”

He waited for a response, but he the only response he got came from a mouse skittering across the crusted black floor, snaking through an obstacle course of dirty laundry and a perilously stacked pile of plates and empty beer bottles. Kent paused in the small hallway that lead to the bedroom, heart beating like a hummingbird as he thought of the last time he had stopped by and found his mom too strung out to even talk to him. He paused at another picture, this one was a framed photo of Kent from his online profile picture from the Q. Picture Kent grinned cockily at the camera with a confidence he didn’t feel now, his gray eyes sparkling joyously. Kent focused on the rest of the picture and noticed someone had taken a ballpoint pen and scribbled “worthless” across his jersey. Kent’s heart sank, and he stood motionless in the hall, unsure if he really wanted to go through with this. Kent knew he could go back across the hall to Mrs. Flowers and enjoy their pre-Christmas Eve dinner and continue their sugar cookie decorating tradition. He could go back home to the woman who took him in and loved him despite the trouble he caused her. 

He almost turned around legs already willing to take him away from this horrible place. Tension crept into shoulders and he rolled them back, bracing himself for the onslaught that he knew was about to come. He just wanted to see his mom one last time before the draft, before everything changed forever and he would never have to return to this hell hole. He would move Mrs. Flowers to an apartment whose heat didn’t spontaneously stop working in the winter, somewhere closer to the city so he wouldn't have to worry about her as much. 

He worked his way down the hall, stopping briefly at the cracked and splintered door that still had a faded black and white placard dotted with peeling star stickers around his name. Kent pushed the door open with his foot, the hinges creaking ominously and Kent wondered how the door was still attached to the frame at all. His childhood bed was gone, a dingy and worn mattress lying in the middle of the floor. A bookcase that looked seconds away from collapse listed dangerously to the left, a few tattered books propped up like tombstones against the right side. Kent closed his eyes and stepped away from the room and continued down the hall to his mom’s bedroom. 

He knocked on the door, the world around him making him feel slightly off-kilter. He heard his mom mutter something, and he gently pushed the door open, afraid of what he was going to see. Turns out he didn’t need to worry, because his mom groggily poked her head up from a pile of ratty blankets, knocking multiple empty bottles to the ground. More empty bottles sat on the nightstand, used needles scattered around empty plates and bags of old fast food. Kent's stomach churned at the musty and rotting stench that came from the room, and he stayed firmly at the door. 

“Wha th’ fuck ya doin’ here?” She slurred, squinting at Kent’s vague shape by the door. 

Kent shoved his hands in his pockets making himself smaller as he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head. “Uh, got some time off between games this year, uhm, wanted to see you for Christmas.”

His mom pushed herself up into a sitting position, sinewy arm shaking from the effort or withdraw, Kent wasn’t sure which and felt a rush of fear as her mouth twisted into something ugly.

He braced himself for the verbal onslaught as she spat, “What prompted this trip down memory lane? Thought you had a shiny new family to go home to, at least that’s what the fucking bitch across the hall told me. Dropping by to give me pictures and updates, like she didn’t fucking steal your sorry ass from me.”

Kent bit his tongue hard enough to bleed and could taste the bitter tang as the sharp lance of pain exploded in his mouth. He raised his head a bit and saw the dark purpling bruises beneath her bloodshot eyes. Wrinkles that weren’t there years previous pooled at the corner of her mouth and eyes and Kent was struck by how withered she looked now. He stared at her for a moment too long, attempting to figure out how to answer her without upsetting her more than she already was. It was a delicate dance, one that Kent mastered shortly after his dad died, but had hoped he would have to repeat it. Lost in thought, Kent almost missed her hands curling around one of the empty Jack Daniels bottles, and it was only from his training in hockey that he was able to dodge the bottle she hurled at him. It shattered against the wall to his left, barely missing his left ear. He shielded his eyes from the tiny splinters, taking a retreating step back into the hallway. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, stomach sinking as he realized he shouldn’t have come back to this place. He wasn’t sure what he had been hoping to find here, but as his mother, withered by the drugs and lifestyle she chose over him, rose from the bed on shaking and unsteady legs, Kent knew that he wasn’t going to find it. 

His mother scoffed, the sound grating against his nerves like grinding steel. She hissed acerbically, “You should be sorry, you little shit. I never even wanted you, but what do you do?” 

She inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring and Kent shook a bit as the tears stung his eyes and he stuttered, “I just wanted to see you before..."

“Before what?” she snapped, voice sending chills through Kent, her eyes slicing through him like he was nothing. “Before you fucked everything up? Or before I found out I had a faggot for a son? Think I raised you to be a faggot? Hnuh? Think that being a big shot NHL player is gonna change the fact that you're a worthless piece of shit? Ain’t nobody goin’ to care about you, Kenny, and anyone who does is lyin.”

She sneered at him, bracing herself at the foot of the bed and continued, "I certainly never did."

Kent felt something in his heart shatter, could feel the echo of those words vibrating in his bones as he turned to leave. He wasn’t a scared eight-year-old hiding beneath his bed, he was going to go to the NHL and play his dream. Kent was going to be something more than this hellhole; he was going to be somebody. He bit his lip refusing to rise to her bait, and give her the response she was apparently waiting for.

“Runnin away?” she called out cruelly, trailing behind Kent slowly as if she couldn’t coordinate her limbs enough to walk faster.

Kent finally snapped and spun to face the shrunken woman before him, chin jutted out in defiance, “Mrs. Flowers has been more of a mother than you have ever been and ever will be. I’m not sorry for leaving you, but I am sorry for still loving you because it’s clear you don’t deserve it.”

She stared at him blankly the words finally making it through whatever fog of drug she was currently on and she blinked at him, before large ugly tears slipped down her face, “I’m so sorry, baby, I didn’t mean it. I just was so surprised to see-”

Kent waved his hand at her, schooling his face to be blank, even though his heart wrenched in his chest and he wanted to reach out and hug her and tell her that he didn’t mean any of it. He stood straighter, hoping that his resolve would carry him through. But the years of insecurity and subsequent anger boiled through him, and it may have taken him years to recognize this dance, but at least he could admit it, and he wasn’t going to be the one to keep stepping to it. 

“Stop!” Kent exploded, balls curling into fists, breath coming in fast bursts. He thought of ice beneath his skates and the pull of his body moving forward to help ground him before he did something irrational. “You don’t mean anything you’re about to say.”

“Baby, baby, I do, I just need, I just need a little time to get better. Maybe some extra money to help get me-” 

Kent smiled bitterly, haunted gray eyes staring through her, memories of one of the last good Christmas’s they had flitting through his head, her smiling down at him fondly. He was pretty sure she didn’t even have the same smile anymore and said, “Bye, Sandra.”

Kent strode toward the door, wrenching it open so hard the hinges squealed from the abuse. Kent heard her tears stop and waited as she bit out, “You walk out that door, you little fag, don't expect to ever be able to come back home.”

A hysterical giggle bubbled in his throat because this place had long ago stopped being home to him. He walked out the door, slamming it with more force than he meant to and took the key from his pocket and slid it beneath the door. 

He crossed the divide between Sandra’s apartment and Mrs. Flowers and leaned against the door jamb of her apartment. Mrs. Flowers was already opening the door, soft wrinkled hand on his bicep. 

“C’mon, love,” Mrs. Flowers crooned softly, guiding him to her cramped dining room. He sat down in one of the faded, worn floral print chairs at the scarred round oak table. Kent collapsed into the chair, the tears already falling down his face. There was already a plate of undecorated sugar cookies sitting on a cheerfully painted snowman plate. A three foot Christmas tree blinked happily at Kent, and a ghost of a smile brushed his lips as he noticed that all the ornaments that decorated the tree this year were the ones that he made for since he was eight. A lopsided popsicle star listed dangerously to the right, but it was the one he had painstakingly glued together and dumped an entire container of glitter on it. 

 

The door shut quietly behind them, and Kent heard the deadbolt and the two additional locks slide into place. They both knew that depending on his mother’s mood, they may be in for a long night. Mrs. Flowers put a plate in front of him, along with a box of sprinkles and container of frosting next to his elbow. She ambled in the kitchen for a few minutes, the delicate clinking of ceramic echoing in the small space. Kent accepted the warm tea that she offered him, the light scent of lavender wafting in the space between them. Kent unclenched his hands on the table but was afraid to steal a glance at Mrs. Flowers. 

Mrs. Flowers takes a cookie and places it on her plate, taking her time to smoothly spread the vanilla frosting evenly across the top of the cookie. With a trembling hand, Kent took a cookie and placed it on his own plate, finally braving a look at Mrs. Flowers. Her blue eyes seemed a bit dimmer, her lips pulled into a thin line as if she heard the blowout in the apartment between him and Sandra. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. F,” Kent muttered, heart beating faster as he waited for the inevitable disappointment that he was going to face her. He didn’t know why she kept believing in him and supporting him. He didn’t deserve any of it, and yet she was still here. 

“Kent,” she said softly, tapping his hand with her finger. Kent looked up, tears falling steadily down his face, “I’m sorry about your mother. Sorry that she has a sickness that made her too selfish to see the amazing, sweet, and talented young man in front of me. Most of all, I’m sorry that this is the closure that you got, but I am glad that you were able to walk away from it.”

Kent hiccuped, but couldn’t find the words to express the thoughts that were running through his head and instead sloppily applied the frosting to the top of the cookie. The two sat in silence for a few more minutes, before Kent blubbered, “I just wanted her to say she loved me one last time.”

The knife Mrs. Flowers held clattered to the table, and suddenly she was wrapping her arms around Kent. Kent turned his head and sobbed into her chest as Mrs. Flowers murmured her love for Kent, building him up with every breath. After several minutes, Kent pulled away with a muttered thanks and rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. 

Mrs. Flowers looked down at him, tears falling down her face. She wiped them away quickly and shifted to the small Christmas tree. She pulled a long box from the side of the couch and slid it onto the table. 

“But we don’t open gifts until tomorrow,” Kent muttered, poking at the present perplexed and staring up at Mrs. Flowers. 

Mrs. Flowers fixed him with an unimpressed look and replied, “My house, my rules. We can break tradition this year.”

Kent slid his finger through the side of the wrapping paper, gently peeling the paper back to reveal a plain white clothing box. He pulled the top of the box off of and found a photo album nestled among red and green tissue paper. Kent removed the photo album and flipped it open to the first page and saw the picture of him and his parents grinning up at him. He turned the page, and there sat a collection of photos of him as an infant, carefully swaddled and being cradled in his father’s arms. Another of him as a toddler on tiny ice skates and bundled up in a puffy jacket, clutching his mother’s hand. Another of his father holding him on his hip while in uniform pointing to the camera. Kent flipped through the pages, noticing that some of the pictures tapered off between ages five and nine after his father died. Suddenly there was an abundance of pages upon pages of photos of Kent and Mrs. Flowers at school events, mother son dances, hockey practices and even at the airport when they said goodbye when he left for the Q. There were movie ticket stubs for all of the Harry Potter films that he knew Mrs. Flowers saved and scrimped for, just because she knew he liked them. 

The last few pages were candid photos of him grinning at Jack as they tore down the ice, of him and the Zimmerman's smiling happily at the camera, of Bad Bob teaching Kent how to perfect his slap shot and Alicia attempting to teach him how to cook in the kitchen. The very last page was simply an official picture of Kent in his Q jersey smiling shyly at the camera. The rest of the page held stats for this season and words of advice from coaches and teammates, but Kent honed in on the few lines written by Mrs.Flowers.

_To my dear boy,_

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_I can not express how much joy and love you have brought to my life, and I'm so grateful and glad that I could help you on this difficult journey to achieve your dream. You are worthy of everything that you put your mind toward, and you will always have my love and support._

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_Go get ‘em, Kenny._

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_Love,_

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_Aggie (Mrs.F) ___

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Kent traced his fingers over the word, mouth forming a silent “ o” as the tears flooded his eyes again. He gently set the photo album back into its tissue paper bed and stood to wrap his arms around Mrs.Flowers middle. He was tall enough now that he could comfortably rest his chin on her head, not that was saying much. 

“Thank you,” Kent whispered, heart, flooded with warmth and contentment at the amount of love this woman had for him. “You shoulda given up on me a long time ago.” 

“Don't say those type of things,” she chided, “you got dealt a bad hand, but I'll never give up on you, baby. No matter how much you mess up or think I should.”

Kent gave her a watery smile, not sure how to put into words just how much he appreciated this small gesture. He realized at that moment that he found the answers he needed all along in this apartment. 

Mrs. Flowers broke from the embrace and caressed his face for a moment and said, “Now, tell me about this boy you're into.”

Startled, Kent barked out a laugh and settled back into his chair, his stomach flipping over and clenching as Mrs.Flowers looked at him expectantly. “You, uh, you don't care that….that I'm not quite right?”

Mrs.Flowers raised an eyebrow at him, her voice soft as she replied, “You get that notion out of your head right now, Kent Parson. There is nothing wrong with liking who you like. Now, I've been hearing about this Jack for months now, so spill.”

Kent blinked at her for a moment, his mom's slur echoing in his brain, not sure how to reconcile this with Mrs. Flowers’ easy-going acceptance and support. He bit his lip and shook his head, deciding he would explore that later on in life, because he simply couldn't wrap his mind around it at the moment. He gave a slight smirk and launched into a story about him and Jack at practice, waving his hands to emphasize his points here and there. Mrs. Flowers laughed at the retelling of their antics, taking a small bite of a cookie as Kent talked. 

Time slipped by, and Kent hit a wall, exhaustion seeping into his bones as he sat at the table. Mrs. Flowers stood, joints popping as she moved and ruffled Kent’s hair as she passed by on her way to her room. Kent stood and made his way to his real room, pushing the door open half expecting to see an empty space with ratty mattress. Instead the full bed Mrs. Flowers bought him a few years previous sat in the corner with freshly laundered sheets. Small trophies from skills contests and won hockey games lined the shelves, as did some awards for academic achievement. A bookshelf, sturdy and not leaning overflowed with books and old notebooks stood to his left and Kent smiled. He laid down on his bed, head hitting the pillow, thankful he was home.


End file.
